


Just learning how to know your mind

by Elyant



Series: The Devil makes three [2]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Andrew as a professional Exy Player because of unimaginative plot reasons, Butcher!Neil (sort of), Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Neil Josten as Abram Hatford, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Andrew Minyard, Raven!Neil, but nothing graphic i think, other canon typical warnings, slices of life, tell me if i missed something
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-06-12 13:49:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15341202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elyant/pseuds/Elyant
Summary: What if Nathaniel Wesninski had been raised a Raven, and his mother only ran away with him when he was fifteen ? What if his father caught them four years later, and Stuart Hatford had rescued him too late to save his right leg ?What if Kevin Day had held his end of the deal, and Andrew Minyard kept playing Exy after graduation ? What if Andrew had met Abram Hatford in a pub during his second year as a professional Exy player ?This is a vague attempt to answer at least the last question.





	1. But in the dark I have no name

**Author's Note:**

> This story developped a life of its own, and I still need to figure some things out, but I roughly know where I'm going even if it's not completely written yet. This first attempt at writing fanfiction is unbeta-ed, and English isn't my first language. Please be kind to me ? Also, who knows how America works ? Certainly not me, so blame any incoherencies on me being French.
> 
> The characters don't belong to me, I simply twisted their stories a little to fit whatever my mind came up with. Things that sound like they were taken from the books probably were.

Earlier that evening the team won the first game of the season on home ground, as such the traditional celebration in one of the bars the team frequents in turns resumed. Andrew has accepted the invitation only because _The Devil makes three_ is an English pub with good whiskey, and music that doesn't make him wants to pierce his own eardrums. The fact that it doesn't have a TV constantly broadcasting sport news is also a selling argument.

Now his teammates are well on their way to drunk, and therefore more rambunctious than usual. 

Surprisingly he doesn't actually hate all of them, some he even appreciates. Laila Dermott at their head. Somehow the former Trojan goalkeeper, with her fiery temper and dry humour, has wedged herself in a tiny crack of his armour – granted he doesn't wear it as tight as he used to; years of appointments with Betsy helped with that. In some aspects, Laila reminds him a little of Renee. Both of them wear their faith – albeit to differents gods – openly but without imposing it on others. They respect his boundaries but aren't detered by his blank expression and vaguely threatening silences. Andrew's guess is, if it wasn't a natural incline of Laila's character, befriending Jean Moreau in college must have something to do with it.

Even so, Andrew never is comfortable in large group of people for long, and he only tolerates human interaction in small doses before he needs a break. Nicotine addiction is convenient for that. 

He escapes through the back door of the pub he's probably not meant to use, but he's not one to be bothered by that kind of rules.

  
  


The cool air of the early autumn night is a reprieve from the warmth of the pub. Andrew quickly scans the courtyard, barely lit by the lamp above the door and made darker by the branches of a massive tree obscuring the sky. Some instincts never fade away, especially those born from a far less than ideal childhood. To be aware of his surroundings at all time is one of the very first Andrew picked up, alongside sleeping with his back to the wall. 

There's a high stool carefully situated just outside the range of the light. Sitting on it is another smoker. His head is tilted against the wall, and his eyes are closed, but the minute way his shoulders tense when Andrew steps out is enough for him to know the man is aware of his presence.

Well, Andrew corrects himself, he's not so much smoking as simply breathing in the smoke drifting from the cigarette he holds close to his face. 

Andrew reaches in his pocket for a lighter at the same time his mind provides him with an image of said lighter sitting on the windowsill of the main room of his apartment, on the other side of the city. The low curse he lets out prompts a scarred hand to breach the circle of light, holding a bright orange plastic lighter toward him. 

Andrew lights up and lets the smoke fills his lungs until the need to breathe forces him to release it into the night air before he passes the lighter back without a word. The man doesn't seem to mind the lack of thanks, and Andrew can't help but notice the way their fingers don't touch during both exchanges. People usually don't care enough to be careful with little things like that. 

Andrew is intrigued despite himself. 

Instead of hating the feeling, he accepts it and lets himself take a closer look to satisfy his interest. Bee would be proud, he thinks dimly.

The stranger appears to be about Andrew’s age, dark-haired, and dressed in a oversized gray sweater and dark trousers. The black lines of a tattoo are peeking out under the hem of one sleeve riding up on his wrist. The night isn't dark enough to obscur completely his features, Andrew can discern a thin face dominated by high cheekbones. He's handsome despite the several thin scars that mar the side of his face turned toward Andrew.

It's not the scars that snatch Andrew's attention. The man's face tugs at something in his memory, but somehow he can't make it surface. It's like he saw it before, but only in passing, without really paying attention so it wasn't neatly labelled and stored on the shelves of his memory, but rather thrown haphazardly in a box in a corner. Most of the memories in that box belong to the years court-mandated medication took over his control. Anything not interesting enough to catch Andrew's skipping attention span ended in there. It doesn't mean he has forgotten; he never does. It will just take more than a few seconds to associate this face with its context.

Andrew realizes he's starring when a self-deprecating smile twists the corner of the stranger's lips. That lapse in control is unlike him. Somehow, Andrew has the feeling that interacting with this man has the potential to make him break character more often than not. 

“I tell you mine if you show me yours.” There is a pleasant British lilt to his voice Andrew notes while the man looks pointedly at the dark armbands embroided with constellations (a gift from Renee) concelling knives and old scars. Andrew isn't sure which one he's referring to, he doesn't care to find out.

“I'll pass.”

The refusal is met with a simple nod of acceptance. The man just returns to not smoking and staring at the sky over their heads. 

Andrew tries not to watch him from the corner of his eyes, and does not completely succeed. 

  
  


The comfortable silence shatters suddenly when the door bangs open. Like the first time, fight-or-flight tension take over the other's body for a fraction of a second, and he looks ready to bolt. The word _runaway_ pops unbidden in Andrew's thoughts. 

“Abram?” one of the bartender calls – Marissa, Andrew's memory supplies uselessly. She looks relieved at finding him here, like he has the habit of disappearing and not being found. “Giacomo's drunk and blabblering in Italian. Send him home, will you?” The door closes again before Abram has any time to reply. 

Abram stubs out his half-finished cigarette in an ashtray with a sigh and gracefully hops off the stool. He isn't much taller than Andrew, a few inches at most. Dark hair shines auburn in the light, a shock of color in his otherwise monochrome appearance. Andrew is surprised to see him grab a cane that was leaning on the wall out of his sight. If you don't know to look for it, the limp is anything but obvious. It should belies his earlier assessment of Abram being a runner, yet Andrew can't shake the feeling that there is truth to it.

The door closes behind Abram with a soft click, and Andrew finds himself almost missing his quiet presence.

  
  


Not long after, Andrew takes one last drag from his cigarette and flicks it into the ashtray. The pub is still as loud as before, and he considers calling it a night when he sees the redhead behind the counter. Curiosity alters the course of his path. 

In the light of the pub Andrew notices that the scars are not limited to the left side of Abram's face, although on the other the neat lines left behind by a knife have been replaced by perfectly circular burns; the same kind that cover his knuckles. Abram has been put through a very deliberate and probably beyond painful torture. Andrew wonders if the leg was part of it too. 

When Abram finally stops in front of him, the icy blue eyes that settle on Andrew's face contain an emptiness that Andrew isn't used to see outside of the kids at the center he volunteers when he has time, or outside of the mirror on bad days. An emptiness caused by firsthand experience of the horrors the world can inflict on someone. 

There is a beat of silence, and then Abram huffs out a breath of faint amusement that makes the ice of his eyes melt a little. 

“Whiskey, right ?” At Andrew's nod, Abram sets down a glass with a soft clink against the wood of the counter. 

“What about you ?” 

“I don't drink.” A shrug accompanies the reply, resignation to the inevitable comment of how odd a bartender who doesn't drink is.

Andrew, who resents being predictable, says nothing. Instead he sips his drink and tracks Abram's efficient movements cutting slices of lime to put into the colorful drinks ordered by an elderly couple. His grip on the knife is easy and all control; to Andrew's trained eyes it speaks of more than a simple use on fruit.

That thought finally makes the memory clicks into place. 

Five years ago, in the mist of Kengo Moriyama's death and the subsequent takeover of his empire by his elder son, Andrew was too caught up in Kevin dealing with his breakdown by drowning himself in liquor to really pay attention to anything else. But he does remember seeing news reports about the dismantling of a crime circle in Baltimore by the FBI that ended in bloodbath. They never failed to mention the numerous murders of Nathan Wesninski, wife and son allegedly among them. Both events were seemingly unrelated for anyone not privy to the working of the Moriyama's family. Andrew knew enough to connect the dots and concluded the new Lord was cutting loose ends at the start of his reign. He didn't give it much more toughts. 

Finding the missing son of a mass murderer in a quiet pub of the East Cost isn't the most far-fetched thing to happen in Andrew's life. It may be one of the most interesting though.

For the second time of the night, Andrew catches himself staring at Abram's face and hates him a little for it because in addition to being unfairly attractive, he's intriguing. A puzzle Andrew wants to solve. 

He hasn't felt this curious about something in a very long time; it's unnerving. 

And a little bit exciting if he's completely honest with himself, which he tends to be these days. 

“Staring,” Abram points out with the barest edge of a smile on his lips.

“You don't add up.”

“I'm not a math problem,” Abram replies, nonplussed.

 _I still want to solve you though_ , Andrew doesn't say, then turns back to his table to get his jacket and leave. 

Laila flicks a look from him to the counter where Abram is filling a line of shot glasses with pink liquid. She turns back to Andrew with a raised eyebrow and a smirk but wisely doesn't comment on it.


	2. When the silence speaks words you don't wanna say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some questions are answered. Some answers just raise more questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not quite satisfied with this part, but if I don't want to let 6 months pass before the next update I have to stop obsessing over it. So here it is. I hope it'll still be enjoyable for you to read, though.  
> Maybe this should have been established before : assume everything that happen in canon, to Andrew in particular and the Foxes in general, somehow happened in this universe too with a few tweaks here and there that hopefully will be understandable in the course of the story (says the writer who can't be arsed to think too much about the repercussions of her AU and only wants to write the parts she's interested in).

Andrew hasn't planned to go back to _The Devil_ so soon. It is, after all, on the other side of the city from his apartment. Curiosity and the memory of a cigarette shared in comfortable silence have drawn him back.

This time, he sits at the counter even though he hates bar-height stools since the rung where your feet are supposed to rest is usually to low for his legs. He's pleasantly surprised to find a second rung, placed higher than the standard one, which he can actually reach for once. He suspects Abram is behind this addition, seeing as he isn't much taller than Andrew and must pass much more time than him sitting on these stools. 

Thinking of the devil, the red-haired bartender comes out of the backroom and pauses when he sees Andrew.

He sounds a little surprised as he says, “You're alone.” 

“Keen observation skills,” Andrew comments dryly.

“I mean, I never saw you here without your team.” 

Andrew raises a eyebrow. He's been to the pub a few times and always with his teammates, true. But before last week he's certain he never saw Abram; he would remember. 

Abram shrugs. “Observing people is part of the job.” Answering another unasked question he adds, “Marissa,“ he tilts his head towards the opposite end of the counter where the tall dark-skinned woman talks animatedly with another patron, “ and her partner follow Exy.”

“And you don't ?”

Abram's fingers tighten on the glass he's holding before he puts it down with a sharp clink, amber liquid sloshing dangerously close to the edge. The life retreats from his eyes and the curve of his mouth darkens as he answers. “Not anymore.”

Andrew never saw someone react this negatively to Exy before. There is a story there, an intriguing one. Curiosity pushes Andrew to ask and find out what it is. Instinct tells him not to, not if he doesn't want to cross a line, and by doing so ending all chances to keep talking to Abram. And he doesn't want that. He'd rather ask Abram all the questions that are budding in his mind. 

Over the years some people managed to grab his interest and hold it more than a few moments, but it still uncommon enough to make him pause every time it happens.

Oblivious to Andrew's interior debate, Abram has moved to the other end of the bar where Marissa called him for help. Without the puzzling bartender to stare at, Andrew's eyes fall on the tumbler of whiskey he hasn't ordered but that Abram poured him anyway. The glass is cool in his hand, grounding. He takes a full-mouth sip of alcohol, relishing the delicate singe at the back of his throat when he swallows.

  
  


A part of Andrew that he doesn't quite acknowledge relaxes when Abram comes back to this side of the counter, all traces of his earlier turmoil gone from his eyes. 

“I didn't mean to snap at you earlier.”

Andrew waves aside the not quite apology. “How come I never saw you before ?”

“I used to deal with the administrative side of the business, but accounting gets boring after a while. So when the other bartender resigned last month I decided to replace him rather than hire someone else.”

Abram is a study in contradictions. His expression manages to be open and attentive without giving any of his secrets away. Obviously self-conscious about his scars, he still holds his head high and stares down anyone that stares too long. The patterns inked on his arms are both beautiful and violent at the same time, not hidding the scars but diverting the attention away from them.

Andrew should know better than to find him fascinating. He should get away from the scrutiny of Abram's blue eyes, clear like the deceptive waters of a deep lake, lest he drown in them. It's been a long time since Andrew felt this self-destructive. He's not quite sure what to make of it, but he doesn't want to stop just yet. 

  
  


***

  
  


Being a professional athlete means Andrew is actually busy most of the time, and a few months pass before he returns to the pub. Therefore it's slightly disappointing to find the place exceptionally closed for the night even though some of lights are still on inside. A glance through the window makes his eyebrows rise in amusement at the scene that seems straight out from a film noir. 

The space in front of the counter, usually devoid of furniture to facilitate the passage of customers is occupied by two men in expensive suits sitting face to face on opposite side of a table, several files spread out between them. Their respective bodyguards are standing aside, arms folded across their chest as they survey the meeting.

The man with his back to the counter has light brown hair already streaked with gray and a neatly trimmed beard. The fine architecture of his face and his cheekbones are reminiscent of Abram's in a way that makes it easy to assume they are related somehow. His relaxed stance and serene expression are almost enough to conceal the air of quiet danger that emanates from him. 

Andrew stiffens instinctively when he identifies the other man. He never met Ichirou Moriyama in person before, but he has seen enough pictures of his face to recognize him without hesitation. Dark hair slicked back don't do much to lessen how youthful the Japanese businessman is. Although there's a kind of stillness in his face that speaks of power, he doesn't wear it as casually as the man in front of him. It's odd to see Kevin's equivalent of the Bogeyman uncomfortable. 

Perched on the counter, one leg swinging idly but never hitting the wood, Abram's the only one who looks out of place. Casually dressed in plum pants and a dark hoodie that reads ' _Sorry I'm late I didn't want to come_ ' on the front, he seems especially bored with the proceedings.

Andrew smothers the whisper of a smile that shouldn't tug at his lips when alarm bells are ringing in the back of his mind. He turns around and leaves before any of them can notice him. 

  
  


He has figured out who Abram was and who his family used to be connected to on their first meeting. Andrew hadn't considered he still could be in some other way. Andrew has already dealt with more Moriyama related drama than he'd have liked in his life. This discovery should be an incentive to stay the hell away of the pub and its attractive owner. He should not involve himself further. He should find another tolerable place to join his team on celebratory nights. He should leave the puzzle that is Abram alone. 

Andrew has never really been inclined to do what he should. 

Curiosity does unpleasant things to cats according to the proverb, but Andrew knows what it says about satisfaction too. So he starts to think of a way to ask Abram about the whole thing without being shot down. Neither figuratively nor literally. 

  
  


***

  
  


The porch light casts a soft yellow glow on the backyard. A chilly breeze whips dead leaves around, forming small piles only to disturb them a moment later. Andrew's addiction doesn't care for the weather, and while it's not full blown winter yet, it's cold enough to make smoking outdoors uncomfortable. Bundling his coat tighter around his body to retain some of the heat, he tilts his head back to look at the sky. The moon glows silver, but the stars are hidden by the city lights.

Abram's voice brings his vagrant mind back to Earth. “May I borrow one of these?” 

“So you can waste perfectly good nicotine?” Andrew retorts, but he still pulls out his pack of cigarettes and offers it to Abram along with his lighter. He watches as the tip catches flame on a inhale before asking, deliberately desinterested, “So. How does one become the owner of a front for the mob ?”

Abram pauses for a second, cigarette halfway to his lips, then takes a deep drag and holds the smoke in his lungs a long moment. When he turns toward Andrew, his grin is as sharp as the knives Andrew keeps under his armbands.

“One would have to be killed after hearing the answer to such a question.” 

The refusal to answer is unsurprising. The confirmation – however implicit – of Andrew's accusation, less so. Not that he's complaining, it actually makes it easier for him to pursue the conversation. 

“How about we play a game then ? One truth of yours against one of mine.” It sounds more like a challenge than a suggestion, and Andrew relies on Abram's curiosity to get him to accept.

Abram's gaze is analytical, like Andrew is a puzzle to figure out. And aren't they well-matched the both of them? Andrew would laugh if it wouldn't distract them from the matter at hands.

“Seems fair,” Abram agrees after a moment. His grin holds a playful edge when he adds, “but I'm still not answering that first question.”

There are several things Andrew could ask. He ponders for a long minute before he decides to start with one of the safer option, even if he doubts such a thing as safety exists when it comes to Abram.

“Why do you do that ?” Andrew gestures toward the cigarette Abram holds cupped between his fingers close to his face, breathing in the trails of smoke without taking an actual drag. Abram's odd smoking habit was the first thing to puzzle him, and the list only grew from there. 

Abram hums thoughtfully. “It used to remind me of my mother. For a long time, it was a reminder that freedom existed, that it could be mine. It's still that sometimes, but mostly it just became a habit. How many knives do you carry ?” There's no hesitation before he asks, as if Abram too has a list of questions about Andrew. 

“Three.” One in each armband and another in his boot. Abram nods, as if Andrew just confirmed something he was already aware of. “But you knew that. How ?”

“I was taught to search for them.” Abram tilts his head to the side, directing Andrew's attention to the scars that slide from the outside corner of his eye to the corner of his lips like indelible tear tracks. The turn of phrase doesn't escape Andrew. He supposes the Butcher intended for his son to follow in his steps, and wonders when that plan derailed from its tracks. 

“And the other side ?”

“A dashboard lighter.” Any kind of burn to the face must feel awful but that's downright vicious, particularly compting the numerous circles marking his cheek. The emptiness in Abram's voice makes it worse; he says it like it happened to someone else. Irrational anger surges up Andrew's throat and he forces himself to swallow it back with a mouthful of smoke. 

“Do the armbands hide anything else ?” 

Andrew might have set himself up with his questions about Abram's scars. It's not because his own are hidden that they are invisible, especially to someone who knows how to look. This game he started is a doubled-edged sword. If he lets it, it will tether them together in ways Andrew has never allowed with anyone else.

“Why would they ?” 

“Because there are more convenient ways to carry knives around than sewing sheaths inside armbands.” 

“Scars.” Andrew doesn't trust Abram enough to give him the whole story, so the _self-inflicted_ goes unsaid. Abram seems to hear it anyway. A little crease appears on his forehead, and the look in his eyes is not quite understanding, but it's not pity either. It could be concern, but that wouldn't really make sense.

“Are they recent ?”

Andrew wants to call him out on the double ask, only to avoid having to answer, but he can't do that when he asked two questions of his own already. That's not how the game works. 

“No.”

Abram simply accepts the answer with a nod. Then, sensing Andrew's change of mood, Abram holds his half-finished cigarette to him and goes back inside without another word. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading !
> 
> I have a few more parts for this AU, but I make no promises as to when they'll be posted (I need to establish a coherent timeline for a start). Encouragements always help though :) 
> 
> Titles are not-so-random lines from random songs I listened to while writing:  
> Story : _80's life_ , The Good, the Bad & the Queen  
> Chap1. _Hopeless Wanderer_ , Mumford & Sons  
> Chap2. _Any Story_ , Hindi Zahra


End file.
